Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(28)

I should really work on that. He chewed his lip as he strolled, watching his foot placement a little better now, though if he were to break an ankle, best he do it while Fletcher was still here. The thought reminded him that he couldn’t take too long if he wanted to see his friend off.

He walked until he reached the north coast, which was rocky and uneven, high in some places, low in others. More stones than seashells, but he picked a few up as he went, turning their smooth sides over in his hands, skipping flatter ones into the bay. He grinned, listening to the salty breeze rustle leafy shrubs. It almost sounded like a song.

As he came around a boulder, he paused, seeing a dark shape on the other side. Upon closer inspection, he discovered it was an old two-person boat lashed to a rusted spike, its rope worn and filthy and hanging on its last thread. The boat was badly weathered, but when he freed it from its binds and inspected it, he found no holes. In fact, its hull bore a barely there seal of two loose spirals intersecting. The same seal that stamped every single kinetic tram he’d ever ridden.

Curious, and without an oar, he pushed the boat into the water and pressed the kinetic seal. The boat moved of its own volition, inciting a startled laugh from Merritt. He quickly shut off the magic and, with some effort, got the boat back to shore. “This will be fantastic,” he said to no one in particular, “for getting to and from Portsmouth.”

There was no public transportation between Blaugdone Island and the mainland for resupplying. He, Hulda, and Fletcher had all hired private boats to get here. Return voyages had to be scheduled ahead of time, as Fletcher had done, unless one had a communion stone, windsource pigeon, flare, or another sort of signal to summon transportation. Or, perhaps, to alert the nearest lightkeeper you were in need of aid. There were two lighthouses between Blaugdone Island and the mainland. Merritt would have to introduce himself and get on their keepers’ good sides.

As Merritt dragged the boat farther ashore to keep the tide from lapping at it, he wondered if resupplying was something this staff would do. And how much it would cost to pay them. Easier to just do it himself, really. But Whimbrel House was wild, and a magically inclined staff would admittedly prove handy. Especially since Merritt had a book deadline coming up and hadn’t written a word of it since arriving.

Patting the boat goodbye, he traipsed back to the house, outlining the next two chapters in his head as he went, and, after waiting with Fletcher for his ride back, came up with a couple of splendid ideas for a third.



Two days after Mr. Portendorfer departed, Hulda learned something terribly grievous about her new client.

He was . . . messy.

Mr. Fernsby had moved from a small apartment to Whimbrel House, so he did not yet possess enough belongings to fill its rooms.

And yet.

Hulda was making rounds with her dowsing rods, stethoscope, and other tools, trying to get to the heart of the home’s magical source. She’d brought a feather duster along as well; efficiency was a godly gift.

In his office, Mr. Fernsby had multiple pens and pencils strewn about, as though every time he set one writing implement down, he retrieved another instead of picking up the first. The floor was littered with half-filled papers, some crumpled, some flat, others in between. Worse, his dinner plate was sitting next to the notebooks, and there was still food on it.

Frowning, Hulda picked up the plate and carried it downstairs. Where she found his breakfast dishes had not quite made it to the sink, his fork was on the floor, and the eggs were not put away.

And the most atrocious of them all, she later discovered, was that Mr. Fernsby did not make his bed.

She stared at the disheveled monstrosity in his room, blankets askew, pillows flat, one forgotten on the floor. For goodness’s sake, she understood the library being a mess, the house was what the house was. But this was ghastly. Expected from aristocracy, yes, but this was the United States, and Mr. Fernsby was not accustomed to staff. He had no excuses.

She blanched. What if he doesn’t wash his sheets?

Tucking her tools away, she marched downstairs, excusing herself outside for some fresh air and a rejuvenation of her sanity. She walked the perimeter of the house with her dowsing rods, finding little of interest, then listened to the foundation and corner posts. “I don’t think you’re built of magicked materials,” she said to the house, which did not respond. She made a note in her ledger and determined she might as well conduct a full inspection of the exterior while outside. Walking around the house, Hulda noted panels and buttresses, then examined the structure again from farther out, taking notes on the shingles and shutters. She hadn’t previously noticed the house had a weather vane. Perhaps that was something to investigate . . . though climbing up there would be a challenge in and of itself. Her dresses were not made for such adventure, and she did not own a pair of trousers.

Next she studied the windows, listening to them with her stethoscope and testing them with dowsing rods. She took her time because she didn’t want to perform the task twice. Indeed, by the time she had finished her inspection, the sun was beginning to sink.

Mr. Fernsby was writing by candlelight in his office when she returned indoors. She desperately wanted a long and thorough bath, but for decency’s sake, she would wait until after he had turned in for the night.

His door was open, and he must have heard her, for his fingers stilled and he turned in his chair. “Ah! Hulda, I have a question for you.”